


Light Off the Cobblestones

by Crayola_Kid



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: ! - Freeform, Abusive Relationship, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Canon Era, Heavy Angst, History, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Physical Abuse, Work In Progress, alternate universe modern AND canon, death man. It's Les mis, emotionally abusive relationship, enjoltaire - Freeform, midnight in paris AU, so shit at tags god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:33:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crayola_Kid/pseuds/Crayola_Kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He didn’t move for a while. Whatever he had drank sat inside him burning pleasantly.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>He wasn’t drunk enough to cry, not yet, but he had no money, so he blamed the stinging in his eyes on the rainwater sliding off of his hair in cool steady drops.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Somewhere a clock started chiming.</em></p><p> </p><p> Grantaire tries to leave an emotionally abusive relationship, but somehow finds himself in the company of 19th century revolutionaries.</p><p>Roughly based on 'Midnight in Paris', by Woody Allen. (PSA: Woody Allen is an alleged abuser; for this reason I feel the need to disclaim that this work is not in any way excusatory of his actions, merely inspired roughly with some contempt for the man behind it)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be so shit and probably updated in the next month. I'm dreadfully sorry for the disgrace this is going to be.

The only thing keeping Grantaire from leaving the bench was the promise of Montparnasse’s warmth, the extra hand filling his coat pocket, clasping onto him as the other hand smoked a cigar.

Grantaire’s eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t know where he was really, somewhere in Paris, somewhere near a metro station. He wasn’t used to the unfamiliarity. His ears heard only the puffs of Montparnasse’s breathing next to him and the rumbling and screeching of trains on nearby tracks.

He’d be intrigued by the beauty of it, really, but it was really fucking cold. 

Grantaire was only here for Montparnasse. And Montparnasse was only here for the funeral of a distant friend (whose specifically, however, R had no clue), who had died in unfortunate and undisclosed circumstances. 

Grantaire reasoned that they might as well make Paris worthwhile, include a little romance whilst on their solemn mission. He took Montparnasse down to the Seine, even though he knew Montparnasse had been there a million times. It’s the thought that counts.

The sentiment wasn’t seen however, because it was so fucking cold and both of them wanted to leave, each without disappointing the other. Montparnasse was the first to break.

“Fuck this Grantaire, it’s too cold.” He yawned, standing and kicking the cigarette butt into the illuminated river.

They walked back to their hotel in silence. 

***  
Grantaire only woke due to the unwelcome breeze that came curling around his exposed feet. The blankets were half off the bed, pulling taught against his bare skin. 

Montparnasse was smoking on the balcony, talking to a friend of his (presumably, he was acting abnormally amicable) in a deep French that Grantaire couldn’t even understand. 

Montparnasse was wearing a suit already, and early morning sunlight gleamed off of his dark skin in the only way possible for Montparnasse, fucking elegantly.

Grantaire only chose to buy him a drink when he first met him, because he thought Montparnasse was a ballet dancer, and Grantaire had always been obsessed with that sort. 

They were untouchable in their grace and poise, unlike Grantaire. Montparnasse was a distraction from himself, an elaborate and complex distraction built through years of work, just so Grantaire could get away from being confined inside his own mind. For this, Grantaire loved him, selfishly so.

Even now, the cold breeze seemingly glanced off of him and instead targeted the sheer white curtains, blowing them inwards, catching Montparnasse’s eye.

Language barriers were slightly isolating, but even then, when Montparnasse saw Grantaire’s head pop out from the blankets of their shared bed, he swung the balcony door shut with a sleazy and almost apologetic smile. 

Jerk. As if Grantaire could understand what he was telling the person on the phone anyway.

After Grantaire had showered and put on his usual dress of a plain white shirt and ragged jeans (unalike to his always formal husband), Montparnasse came to find him.

It hadn’t escaped Grantaire’s attention, or his hearing range for that matter, that on the balcony Montparnasse had been laughing. A fake laughter of course, that is all Montparnasse could offer the world, but a laugh all the same. Something so rare had once been what drew Grantaire to Montparnasse, but now it was a clear fact, often made clear by Montparnasse, that it constantly made Grantaire enviously ugly.

Montparnasse often reminded Grantaire that ugliness was not a desirable characteristic, and that it saddened him so to see Grantaire act or feel that way.

Grantaire often wondered what had drawn Montparnasse to him.

Montparnasse was obsessed with beauty. He was the ultimate connoisseur of all things perfect and rare. Nothing else would do.

Except Grantaire. Grantaire, whose figure was uneven in every way: shape, size, tone, texture. Grantaire who had ‘one of the most disgusting personalities’ ever come across, according to an old friend. Grantaire who was never creative by himself, yet was able to recreate or restore any painting.

Fake Monets and Picassos hung in their apartment back home in New York. All painted by Grantaire; all copied by Grantaire.

The best ones however, Montparnasse sold. 

_‘Easy Money’ Montparnasse had whispered into Grantaire’s ears years ago. Grantaire spent days painting in that room. His hands blistered and the pressure for Montparnasse’s praise or gratitude (though never received honestly) would consume his waking hours. Abstract dreams would fill his narcotic filled sleep._

Grantaire tripped back into reality when the taxi door shut him in. Montparnasse was sat on his other side pressed against the car window and texting at a fast pace.

‘I’ve decided that we should say fuck it, Grantaire’ Montparnasse announced.

Grantaire tried to hint with a deadpan look that he had no idea what ‘it’ meant. Montparnasse continued staring at his phone screen.

‘What I mean by that, darling, is fuck Paris. I’ve been here too much of life to give a shit anymore. I know we were going to have a look at apartments here, but fuck it. Honestly, New York is nicer, I grew up here, so I should know.’ Montparnasse continued.

Grantaire sat there, shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

‘Montparnasse, you can’t say ‘fuck it’ to Paris!’ Grantaire choked out.

Not getting the attention he deserved he waved his hand in front of Montparnasse’s phone, breaking the intimate connection between them.

‘We had a plan Montparnasse. Paris. My art. You said this was the only place that I could actually be anything. The Louvre, the history, it was the plan. You can’t say ‘fuck it’ to Paris, we had agreed on this, I was only here for you and the funeral. You promised. You said you’d make it worthwhile.’ Grantaire explained, exasperated.

Montparnasse studied Grantaire, a perfect poker face as he stared into his eyes.

Grantaire knew that Montparnasse wouldn’t be moved. Grantaire always had to be the one to back down. Montparnasse’s reputation allowed no other option.

‘We’re here Grantaire. We’ll finish this tonight, at dinner, not here. And for fucks sake wear a suit tonight.’ 

Montparnasse left the taxi, not even waiting for Grantaire to clamber out as he stalked down the street.

Grantaire gave the driver the cash, told him to keep the change in the best French he could manage, and jogged to catch up with Montparnasse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'I'll update in the next month or so I said'-- plot twist, actually updating like two days later. I'm terribly impatient.  
> Again, sorry for the shoddy quality of this...

Grantaire was fixing his tie when Montparnasse leaned over his shoulder, eyes closed daintily, pressing a fragile kiss to his husband’s rough neck. When he opened his eyes to view Grantaire he pulled away, frowning.

“Grantaire you could have at least shaved” Montparnasse sighed.

Grantaire continued to fiddle with the tie, avoiding unnecessary eye contact with his husband. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Grantaire asked.

Montparnasse shook his head silently. He didn’t need to say that yes he did mind, that they both knew he did, that both disapproved. 

The smallest of details never escaped Montparnasse, he was always on the lookout for imperfections, his reputation demanded it, unfortunately. It always caught Grantaire off guard.

The two of them standing in front of the mirror like this made them appear like a comical couple. 

Grantaire hated the height gap between them, massive as it was. He hated how he was the ugly one. Even Montparnasse’s single tattoo looked better than all of his, as it lay delicately and silently on clear skin, whilst his own darkly consumed all his body.

Grantaire preferred having the five o’clock shadow, it covered his acne-scarred skin, even if it made him look marginally scruffier. 

He made a note to shave it next time, hoping to avoid the disdainful tutting if possible.

His self-conscious thoughts were broken by people shouting in the street. You could hear it out through the balcony, still open from the morning. A car alarm wailed below. 

Grantaire had always imagined Paris as a quiet place before he came here. He didn’t expect the noise to be so familiar to his home town, New York. He had always envisioned Paris as a place of the past, undisturbed by urban technology and every-day migration of people. In a way, he still wanted to believe it was different to all that.

One of Grantaire’s most common subjects for his art- before he began to make copies- had been Paris, as he imagined it would be in the 18th century. The amount of books that romanticised life back then fascinated him, but so did the dreadful truths of the dangerous era. Grantaire found the beauty of such a time enticing, but the horror of it all more so. Call him morbid, but a face in pain is more expressive than any other, and a spectacle to paint.

The noises outside served as good enough distractions when Grantaire struggled with his cufflinks -not wanting to view the reflection, Montparnasse still in the mirror beside him.

***

It felt childish to hide behind his menu, but the ‘establishment’ Montparnasse had chosen made Grantaire feel as a kid in this situation.

People were wearing bow ties for fucks sake. Grantaire hadn’t even shaved. Fuck that, Grantaire hadn’t even washed his hair in two days.

And he wasn’t imagining the passive disapproval radiating off of Montparnasse.

The cautious smiles Montparnasse would throw at strangers, instead of facing his disappointing husband. The casual glances away were carefully placed, so that no eye contact with Grantaire was ever made, to avoid being too obvious, yet still getting the point across.

Disappointing.

Grantaire was tired. Maybe it showed. He’d been stifling yawns all night, when Montparnasse was too busy pouring them wine to notice.

The fifth time the bottle glanced over their glasses Grantaire was growing bored of the situation, and eager to leave it. Something slightly different to panic was building in his chest. It wasn’t a strange anger at being ignored, he was angry at himself. Angry for making it all worse.

He couldn’t sit here in silence anymore.

Grantaire coughed, getting Montparnasse’s attention and even a quick flash of a smile.

“Mont-” Grantaire began carefully before he was cut off by his husband’s scraping chair.

“Babet!” Montparnasse exclaimed, stood confidently to get the attention of the old friend.

“Babet, it’s been so long! Come over here!” Montparnasse called.

The man, Babet, whom Grantaire had never met before jogged over smiling. Montparnasse laughed, gleeful, oddly childish, attracting looks from the majority of the restaurant.

In this moment Montparnasse was uncaringly and uncharacteristically loud as he began a long stream of enthusiastic French. It seemed he didn’t care for his own guidelines for polite public behaviour when it suited him. Perhaps those rules were only to prevent Grantaire from embarrassing him, something which apparently happened all too often.

Grantaire didn’t know where to look, especially when another man came excitedly towards them, exclaiming Montparnasse’s name. Grantaire stayed seated, sipping from his glass awkwardly.

It was only at this delayed point that Montparnasse seemed to remember his husband actually sitting there.

‘My friends, this is my beloved husband, Grantaire. I don’t believe you’ve met him. Grantaire, these are my dear friends (and associates), Babet and Claquesous.’ Montparnasse explained, beckoning Grantaire out of his seat, to shake the hands of his friends.

Grantaire couldn’t help to notice how the pair were both strikingly and unfairly handsome. Grantaire also noticed the playful, fanciful looks Montparnasse would give the two as they recounted their first meeting, a story that was meant to be acquainting Grantaire with their age-old friendship, bringing the stranger that he was up to date.

Montparnasse looked at them in a way so unrecognisably warm and welcoming that it caused Grantaire to shudder violently. He knew that Montparnasse never looked at him that way.

Catching the shiver through Grantaire Montparnasse gripped his arm, pushing him to one side.

‘Grantaire, go home. You look ill darling.” He mewed.  
Montparnasse slid a slender finger down the side of Grantaire’s face. 

He abruptly placed the finger over Grantaire’s lips, shushing the words that were already falling out in reluctance and opposition to Montparnasse’s instruction.

“We can take it from here, I won’t be lonely, don’t worry. You do look like shite darling, go to the hotel and rest, huh?”

Montparnasse smiled hollowly. Grantaire couldn’t understand how a smile could get so cold.

Grantaire couldn’t speak. The anger was welling up inside him now, rising up into to his head, to his mind, like sewage that clouded his previously clear thoughts.

He simply nodded the three goodnight, passed on a fake smile and a loveless kiss, picked up his jacket and walked out into the pissing rain.

***

Grantaire didn’t have a watch, a wallet, a map, or any sense of direction or internal compass. He’d never even been to Paris before then. It was raining, it was cold, but there were a few shops that were open. He couldn’t even speak fucking French.

His feet were blistered, his hair sodden and in his eyes. Not that it mattered, it was too dark a night to see anything anyway. 

He was a fucking mess, just as usual.

He had only a crumpled euro note in his pocket so he stumbled into the first place he could find. The clock read it as 11.33 in its eerie green glow. He bought what he could with the money he had and stumbled back out.

It didn’t take him long to find stairs to sit on. The rain had stopped, and behind him a small fountain embedded in a brick wall ran audibly. The lazy tinkle of the running water was almost soothing if not annoying. Irritating like the water dripping out of Grantaire’s hair when it hit the pavement, as he lent back to get the last reaches of liquid out of the bottle. The booze was the only thing comforting in this situation.

He didn’t move for a while. Whatever he had drank sat inside him burning pleasantly.

He wasn’t drunk enough to cry, not yet, but he had no money, so he blamed the stinging in his eyes on the rainwater sliding off of his hair in cool steady drops.

Somewhere a clock started chiming.

Grantaire laughed sadly. He didn’t know why. It felt strange. He hasn’t laughed in years, but he doesn’t remember it feeling like this.

God he could get so sentimental when he was drunk.

“Good monsieur, what a beautiful night it is, though much better in company- yes?” 

Grantaire slurred quizzically at the figure in the top hat before him.

Grantaire didn’t object when the man came to join him on the cobblestone floor. The rain had stopped, but Grantaire was soaked, his shirt clung to his chest uncomfortably. 

The lighting of a pipe illuminated the strangers face. He was young, probably younger than Grantaire, but he was dressed like someone off to a funeral or something. 

He took of his hat and leaned against the fountain, puffing at his pipe.

“Are you off to a convention or something mate?” Grantaire laughed, reaching out for the pipe.

“Of sorts, I guess. I have a meeting soon.” The man laughed pleasantly, Grantaire didn’t quite know why.

“What kind of meeting starts at half past twelve at night?” Grantaire asked, reluctantly handing the pipe back.

“I have no idea!” The man gasped, giggling. “My name is Courfeyrac, my good man. And you are?”

“Er, Grantaire?” Jesus, making pals with a stranger after just a few bottles. How weak was he?. Maybe Montparnasse was right about his character.

 

“Well, Monsieur Grantaire, would you care to accompany me to this meeting, or rather a gathering of friends? There will be wine and warmth in there.” 

Courfeyrac stood up, and offered Grantaire his hand, covered in brass rings and odd trinkets.

Grantaire was too drunk to say no. He was also too cold to stay here, and going back to his hotel alone was not an option. He didn’t even know where he was for Christ’s sake. Maybe there was a phone he could use there.

Grantaire stumbled as he was hoisted up, but it seemed Courfeyrac was just as drunk. They tried to support each other whilst tripping on the paved road, and slamming into the narrow alley walls of Paris.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahaha what am I doing. no seriously. I just got off a plane and it's late and it doesn't make sense, I haven't checked it. blah blah blah prepare yourself for awful writing, as usual. Thanks to those who left kudos and comments though I appreciate them greatly friends

Grantaire couldn’t help but to question Courfeyrac’s strange attire as they strode down the streets. Courfeyrac had no answer as to _why ___he dressed like that, and on the contrary he deemed himself quite fashionable.

In dubious return, Courfeyrac questioned Grantaire’s clothing, before retreating from the subject when he got bored of Grantaire’s rude quips. __

‘What brings you here to Paris, Grantaire?’ Courfeyrac asked. 

‘Is it the accent that makes you think I’m a foreigner or is it maybe the fact I’m speaking English?’ Grantaire asked back sarcastically. 

‘You are amusing, Grantaire. Your French is perfect, I assure you-‘ 

‘Sure.’ Grantaire laughed. Grantaire was paying more attention to the strange winding streets they found themselves upon, rather than Courfeyrac’s endless babble. 

‘-And I’m used to odd accents, I have a variety of friends of different nationalities-’ Courfeyrac continued, ignoring Grantaire. 

Courfeyrac stopped and whirled round to face Grantaire, seemingly inspecting him. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes at the dramatics, but leaned forward to catch his unsteady…friend. 

‘But, Grantaire, you just don’t seem Parisian. Well, what I mean to say is that you don’t have the look in your eyes that we all do. And also, the clothes you wear are good enough a hint.’ Courfeyrac mused. 

‘Jesus, I thought you were going to get poetic on me there.’ Grantaire sighed. 

Despite Courfeyrac’s constant yet pleasant distractions, Grantaire’s mind couldn’t help but wonder as to where they were heading. 

Grantaire (although unexperienced with the city) never remembered the smog rising from the terracotta rooftops, or the veiled figures of men lighting street lamps earlier in his trip. There were also far more stars in the sky than he had seen before- odd in a city as huge and urban as Paris. 

Courfeyrac jerked to a stop outside a deserted looking pub. 

‘You’re meeting here? Isn’t this a safety hazard or something?’ Grantaire asked quietly, scanning the structure of the building. Plaster flaked off the walls, which leant at a precarious angle over the street. 

‘I promise you my friend, Le Musain is much more cheerful inside’ Courfeyrac grinned. 

Grantaire reluctantly followed through the door.  
***  
Once inside the silence fell quickly as everyone turned to face Courfeyrac and his guest. 

Courfeyrac chanced a hesitant smile before deserting Grantaire in the doorway, heading towards the most crowded table in the room. 

Grantaire could swear the other man had purposefully abandoned him, noticing the unpleasant atmosphere Grantaire always seemed to leave around. 

The urgent chatter rising from their table tempted Grantaire’s curiosity. He would have taken a step forward to better hear, but their hushed, urgent whispers seemingly directed at him pushed him back against the walls. A familiar feeling rose in his chest, and bile collected in his mouth. 

‘Courfeyrac, you’re late again I see. What urgent business was it this time?’ Someone asked, voice painfully noticeable though the crowds. 

Courfeyrac laughed. Grantaire took the time to distract himself from their apparent scrutiny. 

Observing his surroundings he saw men and women all dressed in strange, old fashioned garb loitering around, throwing suspicious glances his way. Gas lamps on tabletops and the whitewashed walls illuminated their curious faces. The men closest to him wrinkled their faces in disgust. 

Grantaire knew that he probably reeked of alcohol and whatever happened to be in the street when he had sat down earlier. 

He didn't have it in him to apologise to the strangers. 

Around him men staggered happily into rouged womens’ arms. Grantaire was isolated in his corner of the room, the faces staring into him brought him no comfort or sense of belonging. If he had been able to summon the energy to run he would have. For now he could barely keep himself upright. 

The floorboards shifted uncomfortably beneath him, adding to the agonising noise that enveloped him. He was reeling at the volume of them all. 

‘I'd have thought you'd thank me, dear Enjolras, as I have recruited another revolutionary!’ Courfeyracs’s voice rang cheerfully. 

Grantaire stumbled a little; straining to hear them. 

‘Jesus’ a man muttered viciously. Grantaire could barely see the speaker, but he could see golden wisps of hair flickering out from behind Courfeyrac and the other men. 

‘This is no place for a drunkard Courf! Be it him or any other stranger you pick up off the street. Do you honestly believe this will help our cause, look at him. He doesn't belong here’ 

The words were spat with such venom that Grantaire stumbled again. 

‘You trust too easily, Courf’ another man chided, soft in voice but firm all the same. 

Courfeyrac’s retort was cut off by the harsh words again. 

‘Where on earth did you find such a man?’ They seethed. 

No one seemed able to talk after that. 

The silence made the experience all too real, but Grantaire bit his tongue. 

Courfeyrac laughed again, and the muttering around the room continued. 

From across the room a young woman beckoned him over to a table. Grantaire sat down gratefully and pushed the heels of his hands into his skull. Why wouldn’t he wake up? 

He never had dreams as vivid as this when he was drunk, only high. And last he could remember he only downed a bottle or two that night before meeting Courf, no drugs of any kind were taken- at least on purpose. 

He’d come to the conclusion it was a bad trip, he was dreaming, hallucinating even. He’d wake up in the morning and he’ll hide the obvious signs from Montparnasse, and try to forget whatever happened here. 

Grantaire opened his eyes to the noise of glass scraping on wood. 

The waitress pushed a bottle towards him. 

She bent down closer, so their brown eyes were level. 

‘If you’re to be known as the drunkard, then drink.’ She whispered. Grantaire took the bottle from her. 

It didn’t say ‘drink me’ on a cute little pastel label, which disappointed Grantaire. If he was having a bad trip, it could be a little Alice in Wonderland-esque (was that too much to ask for?). 

He drank it down in lieu of a thank-you. The bitterness was more than a welcome distraction from the not-so-subtle glares he was thrown from around the café. 

She smiled, but her earlier instructing tone warned him against crossing her. He bit down his sarcasm, and innocently told her: ‘I have no money’. 

She snorted, looking him up and down. 

_‘It’s on Courf.’ She stated it bluntly, but there was a wicked humour in her eyes._

_Grantaire swallowed. ‘Courfeyrac?’ he guessed hesitantly._

Her slow nod confirmed the obvious. 

‘Does he know that?’ Grantaire quipped. 

‘He will’ She assured him coyly. ‘I’m Musichetta, and I hear from Courfeyrac, you are Grantaire.’ 

Grantaire nodded. 

‘For you, R’ she signed off, pulling out another bottle before leaving him too. 

Grantaire’s grin faltered. 

He understood the nickname. Montparnasse used to call him that. When they were younger Montparnasse used to call him a lot of things. 

From his spot Grantaire could see everyone. Courfeyrac was in two places at once, joking with another man before being pulled back into engaging conversation, before joking again. Musichetta was leant over a table, her mass of hair covering her face, there she kissed two men on the cheek, before reclining in their laps as she ruffled their hair. 

By her breast a faded tricolour ribbon sat triumphantly. Everyone was wearing one. Grantaire looked down to check that he was missing one. 

He was pretty sure this was a dream, so it seemed plausible that he could have been wearing a stranger’s neckerchief and ribbons. No such luck, he was wearing what he wore to dinner- minus the suit jacket which was abandoned somewhere along the street. 

_***_

Sometime in the next hour (it was all a bit blurry) the two men Musichetta had been fussing over came over to introduce themselves. 

He had seen Musichetta, bless her, urging them to come and make conversation with the poor lonely drunkard. 

They snuck over when cries of revolution rattled the room enough they could move unnoticed. They announce themselves as Joly and Bossuet, and both look hopelessly out of place here. 

Their apparently innocent demeanours contrasted tragically against those of the others, who’s cries for justice and blood were heckled by everyone. 

As Grantaire grew to know them better he realised how much they were willing to martyr for their country, his judgements changed and their innocence smashed to the floor as the agreed to the calls of their gun brandishing brothers. 

Bossuet had an odd sense of humour, and had a habit of falling off his chair mid-conversation. Joly was absent-minded for the most part, but added into the conversation eagerly every now and then. The affectionate looks they tossed each other didn’t go unnoticed by Grantaire, who wondered : _When was the French revolution this gay?_

More men came over between the speeches to join his sad little table, bringing crude jokes and playing cards. 

Their names were Bahorel and Feuilly. They were as together as the other two, but less eager to flaunt it. 

Looking over them both made Grantaire nauseous. They were completely opposite, just like he and Montparnasse were. But they seemed to move together fluidly as opposed to irritate one another. 

What Feuilly made up for in his small stature was his voice. Deep in tone and in meaning, he told Grantaire about their cause, and was patient even when Grantaire laughed at them. 

Bahorel, despite being the most frightening of all the men, was the funniest and most pleasant to talk to. He, like Grantaire believed in other things than the cause, and was more than eager than the others in relenting and talking with him about those instead. 

In Bahorel’s bruised knuckles yellowed playing cards were shuffled, drifting over his fingers in a dreamlike glide. He handed one to Grantaire. 

‘For the memories, my friend. Come back tomorrow and you can give it back yourself. Do come, R, or I shall believe you stole from me’ Bahorel told him at the end of the night. 

Grantaire nodded, half asleep as Joly helped him up from the chair. Grantaire shrugged him off and headed towards the door. 

Despite the niceties, Grantaire still felt unwelcome. 

And as he held himself in the doorway he caught their leader staring at him. 

Grantaire hadn’t payed the man attention before, too busy being smashed, but now he caught him off guard completely. 

In the midst of all these people, the golden crown that framed his disdaining face shone out from the darkness that Grantaire had brought with him.  
Feuilly had called the man Enjolras. The name felt sweet on his tongue amidst the bitter aftertaste of alcohol. _Enjolras. ___

___The fire in Enjolras’ eyes were too painful to look into, so he turned his face away from the sun-like glare._ _ _

____Enjolras ___. He whispered, falling out the door._ _ _

_____Enjolras. ____ _ _ _

_____Just as this dream was getting good. Just as he saw him._ _ _ _ _

_____Grantaire had to go. He hurried down the maze of streets, not caring for directions. He followed the street lights home, the name still burning in his mouth._ _ _ _ _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA WHAT AM I DOING.
> 
> I apologise, for this my friends, is an atrocity. I'm jetlagged, i've been away far too long and i am writing this at an ungodly hour.
> 
> Therefore please excuse the terrible quality of this hastily written chapter.
> 
> Thanks to those who leave kudos, sub, or comment, it means the world that you've actually taken time to read this shit.
> 
> On a more important note, I have no actual plans for this story, and that along with the fact I'm starting sixth form in a week means this will be so inconsistently updated it will defy belief. Sorry?
> 
> ALSO, WARNING, slight/vague suggestion of physical abuse

Montparnasse had stumbled in at dawn to find Grantaire face down in their shared bed. From the doorway Montparnasse could smell the reek of alcohol. 

On the way to his bed, Montparnasse looked into the mirror. He was tired. He felt the soft skin under his eyes, darkened blue due to the heavy night.

What he had done was reckless. It wouldn't do to leave Grantaire by himself again, it ruined their image. Husbands should be seen together, composed and reserved. When Grantaire was on his own he caused endless chaos. Montparnasse could not have that.

Montparnasse made a note to be slightly more compassionate with Grantaire, before joining his husband in their bed. 

They’d have to get the staff to wash the sheets tomorrow, they stank of sin.

***  
Grantaire was reeling when he woke up. He couldn’t even remember how he got home.

He could here Montparnasse in the shower, and at the foot of the bed the clothes M had laid out for the both of them to wear.

_How thoughtful_. Grantaire mused. 

Grantaire must have gotten back before Montparnasse, otherwise he’d be having a ball of a time listening to yet another lecture about self-preservation that never seemed to apply to Montparnasse himself.

That did beg the question though, where did Montparnasse go? Jealousy crept into his hurting mind.

To be honest, it wasn’t a fair question. Grantaire had no knowledge of the events that occurred to himself last night anyway, just a fucked up dream and the remnants of a hangover. There was nothing to be jealous about.

God, Grantaire was still wearing the suit he wore to dinner. He smelt terrible and there was the bitter taste of bile in his mouth.

Jesus.

Montparnasse had searched through Grantaire’s pockets earlier, searching for much anticipated contraband. The contents had been emptied onto the chest of drawers accusingly for Grantaire to see.

Grantaire noticed that there was no evidence of Montparnasse’s outing anywhere. Hidden away from Grantaire, not even left in the trash for him to possibly stumble upon.

Instead laying there, at the bottom of the bin was a single playing card.  
Grantaire brushed his fingers tentatively across the signed _‘B’_ that marked its yellowed surface.

‘M, what’s this?’ Grantaire asked quietly. Wary that perhaps this may be dangerous territory.

_Babet maybe? ___

‘Don’t ask me. It was yours. Obviously it doesn’t mean much to you, so I was right in throwing it away. Put it back darling and tell me where you went last night?’ He asked.

Montparnasse’s voice was syrupy, but there was no mistaking the underlying venom on it as he led Grantaire to their bed.

‘I was at the hotel M, I went home remember?’ Grantaire whispered. He looked away from Montparnasse. 

He honestly couldn’t say. Everything was foggy. And his headache eagerly reminded him he’d been out drinking, as did the smell, but as to where he had no clue.

‘You were not’ Montparnasse hissed, gripping Grantaire’s arms. ‘Don’t lie to me, Grantaire I can smell it on you!’

Grantaire hit him away. 

‘Fuck you, Montparnasse, where did you go huh? Where? Did you enjoy your night with them? Did you? Why do you get to know everything, and you leave me in the dark about yourself?’ 

Grantaire was spitting, rage coiling up inside him. He wanted to hit the blank expression off Montparnasse’s face.

‘Because I care about you darling’ Montparnasse replied calmly, his cool eyes avoiding Grantaire and sliding to the clock on the other side of the wall.

‘We are going to be late, R. You know I hate that, pet. Are you quite finished now?’

Grantaire was in disbelief. He swallowed his anger quietly and sent a curt nod.

He was lucky Montparnasse let him go after that outbreak, lucky he didn’t get yelled at, or pushed against a wall, taught a lesson.

***

‘Let me do the talking Grantaire, you sit pretty there and when he asks a question you must answer with no hesitance. No murmuring, understand?’ 

Montparnasse sat Grantaire down at the edge of the studio.  
‘Yes, I get it M’ Grantaire said quietly.

They were here to meet an interested business proposal for Grantaire, an empty gallery under renovation.

Apparently R’s skills were needed to replicate a client’s painting after an unfortunate accident, however it was unlikely the information provided at any point was true. 

The man was late, caught up in traffic. It provided the perfect opportunity for Montparnasse to instruct Grantaire on the dos and don’ts of such arrangements.

When he finally came in there was the exhaust welcoming ceremony that Montparnasse always made.

They were on a first name basis already, yet neither had glanced Grantaire’s way.

Montparnasse and the man negotiated jovially until dark, Grantaire looking on, still as not to draw attention to himself.

Finally, Montparnasse and the man stood and filed towards the door, still all hushed whispers. 

M beckoned Grantaire to join and he lamely followed them as they walked out onto the night streets.

Neither men noticed that Grantaire was lagging behind them, nor had he not been looking where he was going.

So it was too easy for Grantaire to look up from the ground to find no one to follow.

_‘Shit’ ___

How the fuck could he loose them. He could swear he was right behind him before.

Montparnasse will kill him later, all that talk about keeping up appearances and he fucking disappears.

He will never hear the end of this. It doesn’t matter that it was a mistake, Montparnasse won’t want to hear it.

The familiar trickling of a fountain forced him out of the spiral of self-pity with a jolt.

That, and also the all-too sing-song voice calling his name.

‘Dear god, Grantaire! You’re back!’

‘Fucking hell’ Grantaire breathed, scrubbing his hands against his eyes.  
_‘Fucking. Hell’ ___


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been like 2 months but a new school is a worthy excuse for my struggle to update this.

Grantaire let himself be pushed back into the Musain, too afraid to struggle against Courfeyrac.

Everyone seemed as shocked as he was that he had returned, which is saying something, because Holy shit what is happening.

Chairs scraped against the wooden floors as Joly rushed forward to greet both his friends.

‘I told them you’d return Grantaire, I had absolute faith!’ Joly shook his hand vigorously before leading Grantaire over to the familiar corner table in the shadow of the room.

Grantaire was still stricken as he was surrounded by the smiling crowd of faces that were actually real.

‘I believe you have something of mine, R’ A loud voice brought him back.

He didn’t know why or how, but when he remembered to check his jean pocket his fingers brushed against the object that he was supposed to return.

‘Perfect!’ Bahorel laughed as Grantaire hesitantly passed him the signed playing card.

‘I knew you were no thief’ he laughed, setting Grantaire down at the table and passing drinks around.

The casual chaos surrounding Grantaire was cacophonic. He knew he had his episodes…but this, this was something entirely different.

'Grantaire? Whatever is the matter? Are you not pleased to be here?’ Musichetta hissed into his ear, as she bent down to clear the table.

She sent him a stealthy, concerned glare and pushed the bottle towards him.

‘You really shouldn’t be encouraging me to drink.’ Grantaire rasped as he reluctantly swallowed down the bitter liquid.

‘Hush, Grantaire, the meeting is about to start!’ Joly screeched, as the room fell into anxious quiet.

Courfeyrac bashed his fists on the table to quiet the last of the rabble, as Enjolras stepped forward to address his crowd.

‘Friends, brothers, and sisters, we are here to gather and disturb the injustices of our society; the monarchy that watches from above as we starve, we aren’t worthy of their scraps.’ 

Enjolras was stood tall against the rabble, and he lent forward to capture every heart into his speech.

‘I thank you all for joining us, you know what true sacrifice is for our country, we are the soldiers of France!’

Enjolras’ gold hair shivered as he spoke, and when it fell into his eyes his fury burned through the strands like heavenly light. 

Grantaire looked around to check he wasn’t the only one witnessing the man, the angel before him. Fuck was he angelic, but fuck was he naïve.

Grantaire didn’t recognise Enjolras from any book, any historical text- which was hard not to do as Grantaire had a fixation with post-revolution art, and would have poured over it in a great many failed course over his lifetime.

So he knew Enjolras from nowhere, and his beliefs from seemed to be reminiscent of the failed concentrated uprisings several years after the first overthrow of the bourgeois, touched upon hurriedly by a coffee-drowned professor years ago.

Surely, Grantaire thought, if he had never heard of this group, they must’ve been silenced somehow.

The thought pained Grantaire as he looked around the room, his new friends’ faces lit up with hope, as if they knew something he didn’t. The idea that they could all fight for a cause so important to the time, and the fact they weren’t historically famous must mean they were tragically unsuccessful in their endeavour.

Something stirred inside Grantaire and he backed away through the crowd of friends and strangers and Enjolras and collapsed onto a chair.

No one seemed to notice him back here, all the candles moving forward with the others to shroud the corners in a bare darkness.

Hours ago, Grantaire hadn’t a care for these people, who were just hallucinations. Now, Grantaire can’t help but to imagine the horrors of the futures in this new grim world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments as usual, are much appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, is this late, I've lost track? Sorry 'bout that and all...

Before the night was over, Grantaire intended to catch Enjolras away from the others. To heed a warning.

Grantaire knew revolutions were gruesome, but this didn’t sound like revolution anymore. He could picture these strangers joining in a thankless martyrdom, their souls drowning in the blood that would surely run through these still unfamiliar streets.

These kind hearted people that had welcomed he, an outsider, were to die unjust and unknowing. He couldn’t allow it.

Ghoulish images of these men and women, Joly, Courf, Chetta, the child that occasionally weaved between tables- all dead- swam in front of his eyes accusingly.

If Enjolras captivated them all as much as he did Grantaire, they would listen to their leader. Grantaire had to get Enjolras to listen to him, to believe the danger they were sacrificing their lives for needlessly.

‘Darling, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost’ someone unfamiliar whispered behind him. 

Grantaire did not turn from the blond and the spectacles surrounding him as the voice slid into a seat behind him.

‘I have yet to make your acquaintance. Jehan Prouvaire, forever at the service of my friends.’ They smiled.

Grantaire’s eyes slid from Enjolras and the others to greet the ethereal beauty of the man before him. A shiver slid down his spine as he looked into Jehan’s eyes.

Inside were the same poetic longing that Grantaire had learned to see inside Montparnasse. Yet, Jehan’s eyes were somehow less critical in their harshness, so similar and yet so much kinder.

‘I would ask you sir, that you did not stare. I am the same as any man or woman here, only different’ they giggled shyly.

One of Jehan’s hands was caught in their long hair, twisting locks pensively, and the other grasped a cup of dark pungent liquid. 

‘Maybe if you weren’t so beautiful I may have stopped myself’ Grantaire replied, smiling at the nymph-like creature before him, ink stained and covered in contrasting materials.

Jehan stared back in challenging response, before leaning forward and spilling the deep red liquid on both their sleeves as he grabs Grantaire by the wrist. 

‘Cynicism is a disease of the mind, I would hope you try not to infect us. We work towards a common goal here, join us and become part of the future.’ Jehan whispered. 

Grantaire found himself leaning in despite the already too-proximity of them both.

‘Jehan, come here.’ Enjolras ordered, breaking them apart.

‘Good luck, R.’ Jehan whispered as he pressed a kiss to his cheek and broke away to join the other revolutionaries. 

_Good luck_ , he had whispered. Almost, Grantaire thought, foreshadowing his attempts to stop Enjolras’ destructive course.

Grantaire willed himself to watch Enjolras, those around him, clamouring for change.

‘We will raise the people of Paris for our call, to the promise of freedom from those who spit on us!’ He roared between cheers.

Grantaire found himself laughing, staring down as he felt every eye fall to him in trepidation.

‘For only a small group of friends, you do have some grand ideas’ he drawled, still avoiding their flushed faces.

‘Excuse me,’ Enjolras began, eyes cautiously, almost mockingly, scanning Grantaire.

His voice was calm, as if challenging Grantaire to shut up through sheer mortification.

Though Enjolras still addressed his crowd, his body was turned to Grantaire’s dark corner.

‘Our enemies are not each other. Even the disbelievers are proof of the corruption of the highest in society. Their lies have created scathing cynicism in those we thought we could trust.’

The words stung Grantaire, but not as much as the defeating stare provoking him onwards. 

Grantaire sighed as he rose to defend himself, hand brushing a bottle and sending it rolling across the stained wood.

‘I would prefer the term _realism_ , actually. And, I tend not to idealise the world, and not to make beautiful things of revolution. Children shouldn’t play with dead things.’

Enjolras turned back towards him, eyes alight with curiosity at this man who dared stain the importance of uprising.

‘We have no power for change, you’re hid away here for a reason, we’re scared, and we know that this is futile. You’re asking for blood to be spilt, and that cannot be justified of these people.’

You may not have much to live for, but you sure as hell have less to die for’

Grantaire could feel himself shrinking in on himself after the stance.

Enjolras tore across the room to press Grantaire against the table, delicate knuckles white in threat as the pressed against the wood either side of Grantaire.

Grantaire barely had time to breath in the time Enjolras had stalked over to him, and now faced with the fearsome blue of his eyes centimetres from his, he felt a certain dizziness that wasn’t (unfortunately) a side effect of the alcohol.

‘You have no right.’ Enjolras hissed, breath fogging noticeably between them in the breezy café.

‘You are not one of us. You may be here. You may know these people, but you have no idea of the suffering they live through if you can say that their lives are not worth the chance for change.

You have no right to tell them what this fight is worth.’

Enjolras was breathing heavily. Grantaire barely noticed Combeferre wringing his wrists behind Enjolras’ stoic frame.

‘Enjolras, enough, the man in drunk.’ Courfeyrac chastised, pulling his friend away from Grantaire.

Eyes were still on him as he collapsed into the wooden chair again. The chatter resumed, yet somewhat cautiously as Grantaire ordered another few bottles to get lost in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers all that have stuck through this far, comments and kudos much appreciated me dearies


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter references and explicitly describes physical and emotional abuse.
> 
> Stay safe my darlings, we're all in this together.
> 
> I wrote this in hospital when i was stressed and also in class when i was stressed; its short and a bit angsty because its a reflection of my life.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @ Star--trex.tumblr.com , ask me questions and tell me what do with myself and these fics.

Grantaire didn’t know what to do anymore. If he had any logic left in his abused brain he’d run, run away from this absurd reality, and from the danger it put him in.

_‘if you die in a dream, you’ll never wake up’_

On the other hand, Grantaire knew that leaving this Paris would mean coming back to Montparnasse. Thinking of his husband made him uneasy, in a way he’d never noticed before. His mouth went numb even thinking of throwing out the name, his fists would clench and his spine would curl.

For now, Grantaire had no choice but return to the damned hotel room and face Montparnasse, as he walked through the normal, unchanged daylight Paris.

He navigated them expertly, despite his headache and inner turmoil.

Two days ago, he was unable to be unaccompanied for fear of becoming hopelessly lost.

Now, realising he had planted him directly outside the hotel he shared with Montparnasse, he was lost in another sense.

When Grantaire silently entered their shared room, he reproachfully took the suit Montparnasse had so thoughtfully put out for him.

Montparnasse was silent, sitting on the balcony clad in formal ware and smoking. The wafts of smoke were pushed into the room by the billowing lace curtains. 

The smoke made Grantaire choke on the air, as if it had triggered his lungs and brain to cease functioning, a warning perhaps.

Montparnasse stood on the balcony. Grantaire stayed still.

‘What are you doing?’ He questioned, back rigid in his red suit.

‘I was hoping; that if I moved slowly enough you wouldn’t see me. Like, I don’t know Jurassic Park or something.’ Grantaire huffed, barely above a whisper.

Montparnasse laughed too loudly.

Montparnasse turned his neck, dark skin on his jowl shining the Parisian sun. His eyes were dark and unreadable.

Montparnasse stayed stoic for half a moment. Then his teeth bared in a hideously intimidating grin.

Grantaire felt himself backing against the wall, the unnatural hate in the wicked smile scaring him beyond belief.

_That grin. Every time, when their relationship was only starting._

_Every time that Grantaire didn’t want to work. That smile would appear. He’d stay silent and then attack, slamming Grantaire against the closest wall, rabid with inhuman anger. His nails would rip into Grantaire’s hair and pull his eyes to view his own, staring black and terrible and beautiful._

Grantaire braced himself for it all. It had become routine now. He backed into the bathroom before running inside and locking the door, leaning all his weight against it. He could never be sure with Montparnasse; how strong he really was. And Grantaire was not taking any risks.

Inside the mirrored bathroom, Grantaire could hear Montparnasse move around their room.

Grantaire caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked pathetic, but how could he care. He slid down towards the floor. In this moment he just wanted to fucking disappear, anywhere, the Musain, somewhere where Montparnasse won’t reach him.

‘Darling, whatever has come over you?’ Montparnasse said through the door.

Grantaire felt sick. Montparnasse was lying, he was lying, pretending that he wouldn’t hurt him again.

‘Please, Grantaire. Come out, there is nothing wrong. You’re overreacting, don’t you trust me?’

No, no. Grantaire definitely did not trust him.

‘R. Please?’

Grantaire hadn’t noticed his tears until now.

‘Okay’ He said. Maybe Montparnasse had changed, he didn’t care. But the only way out was through the hotel room.

His hand reached above his fragile form to unlock the latch.

Montparnasse moved Grantaire himself, dabbed his eyes with cold water, all the while with the same look in his eyes of uncaring pretence.

‘I’m so worried about you Grantaire. I know the funeral is today, are you frightened darling?’

Grantaire nodded, it’s what Montparnasse was urging him to do.

‘I’ll keep you safe, R. Now, get changed mon Cherie, we have places to be; and you know how I hate to be late.’ Montparnasse warned him as he left the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment and leave kudos please i need appreciation and love kiddos. xxxx


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is laughable that the last update was like 6 months ago, and I have had several different drafts of this (of all I hate), yet never could be arsed to add them on. I'm sorry. 
> 
> I'm not that sorry, but there is a tiny bit of remorse I guess.
> 
> Usual warnings: this is shit. I don't believe there is anything triggering in this but pls tell me if I've neglected something

Grantaire spent more nights on the floors of the Musain than he now did in his shared room with Montparnasse. It didn't matter, Montparnasse was always out at night now- a statement daring Grantaire's disapproval. 

There had been further arguments, and they were staying longer in Paris than intended. Montparnasse had an important business proposition, Grantaire had a suicide mission of the Doctor Who variety. 

Montparnasse, no matter the circumstances, would meet Grantaire in for breakfast. A quaint little pâtisserie. They'd sit there for a while, making light conversation, eating tiny cakes and laughing at overtold stories from a relationship that felt as strange as it did however many years ago. 

Montparnasse would plant a kiss, smile- or storm away if he was in a particularly difficult mood- leaving Grantaire to wonder the now familiarised twists of street. 

The funeral had gone in a blur, Grantaire only able to remember Mont's fierce grip on his as they walked behind the weeping widow- it had yellowed from the pressure. 

Beside that, a ring of red irritation on his darkened skin. Grantaire could shoot a musket, one of the younger men had taught him. 

The man was too young to be laughing at his poor aim. 

Grantaire would spend hours listening to the cries for bourgeoise blood, and somehow, without moving, would wake up from never sleeping- back in _his _Paris.__

__He would hold his eyes open, but he'd always wake up. The frustration was starting to build._ _

__However nice his life may be now, he was living in Paris, married to a successful man, eating jam encased croissants, Grantaire was always waiting._ _

__When Montparnasse lay in bed one night, they discussed the time. The next day, a beautiful, hideously expensive watch was presented to him with a note:_ _

__'If you dare scratch this, M'_ _

__It wasn't in his husbands own hand._ _

__\----------------------_ _

__"Grantaire, I would believe what you said about the future, if you weren't always so late!"_ _

__Courfeyrac jumped off the curb sending pebbles scattering through puddles. Grantaire chuckled, bending down and mock-throwing the stone back._ _

__"Perhaps if your band of renegades weren't so boring I'd be more inclined to arrive earlier. Light?"_ _

__Gracefully, Courfeyrac accepted, leaning forward pipe in mouth._ _

__No matter how many times Grantaire saw it, it was always ridiculous._ _

__When they had arrived an eerie silence had taken over the room. Courfeyrac dove through the crowd like it was the red sea. All about, shoes were scuffing anxiously._ _

__Someone grabbed Grantaire's hand from inside and pulled him through the hushed spectators._ _

__At the extravagance of his entrance, Grantaire couldn't help but laugh at Jehan as soon as he saw the rest of their body._ _

__Bahorel and strangers glanced at the two warily, before letting their eyes settle forwards once more; Jehan put a dainty finger to his lips._ _

__Before them, Courfeyrac, red faced, stood amongst their leader and the friends that he was now too well acquainted with._ _

__The heat in the room was unbearable as they waited for more to push inside, until the whole room was filled with eager ears._ _

__'Friends,'_ _

__Grantaire's eyes unwillingly focused on Enjolras, who now in the center of the room took in all the candlelight, his eyes reflecting the curiosity of his audience._ _

__'Friends, I regretfully tell you that General LaMarque is struck ill. His wisdom guided us on this journey to our own liberation, to teach us we shall not wait for others to assume the burdens of revolution. Should he leave us we will perform his final act. For now, those that will can pray, those that can't should prepare.'_ _

__Enjolras looked towards the revellers as if waiting answer._ _

__But there was no battle cry, just the audible breathing and flickering flames of candles. This was realisation. This was not inspiration._ _

__A man left them then, making his way solemnly into the rain, expression unreadable. More followed him._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment or visit my tumblr if you wish to give any criticism, compliment or general idea for what to do with my life and writing. 
> 
> Thanks kids for bearing with me


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a really shit and halfhearted chapter- one that is so awfully written I may come back to it and try and fix/change everything.
> 
> Sorry that I haven't uploaded in a while but thanks to those who stuck with me despite.

Grantaire held his injured hand in the other. He pressed his thumb into the small bruised circle of misfire, a ring of violent irritation. A bright angry mark of warning and war.

He turned inwards on Enjolras (not caring that he knocked a bottle too close to the edge of his lonely table. A single breath could push it and wreck it in the sawdust littered floor.)

The dust shuffled as he staggered forward. Enjolras hadn’t noticed yet, he was staring at the wall.

Grantaire needed to be quick- what was the time? He’d need to get back.

‘Enjolras.’ He growled, quickening his pace.

Enjolras was unmoving, a marble statue of passiveness, but his fist gripping the table held a note of human desperation.

‘Enjolras!’ 

Enjolras half-turned, looking over his shoulder. It seemed as he had to force his eyes to Grantaire. A strand of white-gold hair fell across his brow. It stuck to the perspiration that glistened his sickly figure.

He looked tired, he looked sullen.

Grantaire had to stare at the floor. He scuffed his bootcap through the dust.

Through the thin walls they could both hear Jehan singing. It fell quiter.

‘Enjolras. What you are doing- this ‘sacrifice’ you are making, it won’t amount to anything.’

Enjolras continued staring, his grey-blue eyes looking straight through him warily. 

He didn’t look quite so beautiful in that moment. He looked deathly. Grantaire was scared he would fall to dust if either of them disturbed the stuffy air.

Grantaire felt bile rise to his throat but he forced himself to breathe.

‘Nothing you do will make a difference. No life that will be extinguished in your name will ever rise from the ashes. I know; I should have prepared what to say, to make them, to make you understand what I mean. You are all going to die. And no one will remember you.’

Grantaire had to remember to breathe but it was so hard to concentrate when Enjolras was staring right at him. He didn’t know if Enjolras was even listening.

He was too scared to turn around, in case when he turned back he’d be in New Paris.

_What time is it?_

‘You talk of a great war, a great revolution. You aren’t even in the footnotes of history. You have no legacy. All you have done and will do are for naught. 

You are already dead.’’

Grantaire expected a reply. 

‘Enjolras! Listen to me!’

**Grantaire felt the first chime of the clock as though it shook through the room.**

Enjolras was still looking at him. His face was unreadable.

Grantaire wanted to feel it, the contours and the softness. Run his fingers across the skin as though he were molding it himself. He wanted to strike it. He wanted Enjolras to wake up. He wanted himself to wake up, months ago when none of this was real yet.

**Another two chimes passed through his body.**

Grantaire strode forward. **Another.**

Grantaire gripped Enjolras. Enjolras was almost limp under his knuckles.

He was stone-grey. 

**Another.**

_‘Enjolras!’_ He hissed.

Grantaire gripped him so hard he was sure he’d break either of their arms.

**Another two chimes came forth like a wave.**

‘Please...Please.’ 

Enjolras looked down sharply. He looked ready to collapse.

**Another chime nearly drove him crazed.**

‘How could possibly see it that way, Grantaire?’

Grantaire pushed him backwards, slamming them both into the ledge of the table.   
His hands clamped either side of Enjolras, so close that he could almost feel his skin through their shirts.

He was so close now. Perhaps if he screamed, Enjolras would forget everything else and just focus his eyes. They were so wet and cold and empty. Devoid of the ferocity he exhibited before.

It made Grantaire shiver. 

**Another chime and Grantaire pushed himself further. He’d wake up.**

It wouldn’t matter if he brushed his lips, it wouldn’t matter at all. He’d wake up somehow and never have to see him again. He could let them go, they meant nothing to him.

**It rocked him forward again.**

Enjolras was still underneath his lips. A delicate hand dragged upwards his arm, snagging at layers of the cloth that separated them.

A soldier's hand: intricate enough to guide, to plan, to load a cartridge and kill with no mercy.

Or that of a god’s, where life was merely in reach to take away cruelly.

Enjolras’ hand slid between the folds of his shirt. It was corpse-cold. 

**Another chime, icy and painful.**

And then it pushed him away.

Grantaire braced himself to wake up, tensing every muscle.

He never did.

His eyes opened to Enjolras’ newfound ferocity. Enjolras threw Grantaire aside. Staring at him in disgust of what they both had just done. His eyes lit up like coals, shedding any semblance of doubt.

Grantaire was still here, and he still felt real.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING_____ mentions of an event that could be construed as drug abuse, overdose, intentional OD, and therefore suicide and self harm. STAY SAFE GODDAM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello happy new year and cheers to those that stuck around,
> 
> I think i'm nearly done with this so maybe 1,2 chapters left? daunting, right?
> 
> Idk, reading back on this fic has left me desperately disappointed, and i'm tempted to rewrite it all.
> 
> But yeah, cheers and all.

Grantaire remembers running.

Somehow, as his feet twisted between the uneven streets, he knew what he was going to find. 

The stone fountain twinkled innocently, like a child's laughter. 

Why wasn’t he waking?

He stepped closer to the fountain, brushed his hands against it’s lips, running his bruises under the ice-cold trickle.

Nothing.

He pulled at the stone in frustration, his fingertips covered with limestone dust and lichen. He wanted so badly to pull it apart, stone by stone, smash the carving and walk through it.

Perhaps on the other side, his husband would be waiting.

Grantaire stopped, suddenly all air leaving his lungs.

Even if he could find a way out, why would he want to? All his life had amounted to nothing. 

Sure, he married one of the most beautiful creatures in existence, but he was trapped in the loveless, deadly relationship. 

Perhaps it was materialistic of him, but he wanted to go back. To clutch all the pretty things that Montparnasse had bought him.

File through the delicate silks, the bejewelled watches, rough untarnished canvases.

He wouldn’t know what to do with them, all the beauty that ever reached his hold will inevitably turn savage. That was what Grantaire was. He could imitate art, never create beauty of his own, or not that which others could love. Perhaps once even Montparnasse had been pure, but Grantaire’s constant disappointments had turned his intentions black-hearted.

If he wouldn’t go back to Montparnasse, where was he headed? 

His family were all gone, his art a pitiful waste of time, and money…. well, just he wouldn’t have without criminal support. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to afford to slip into a drug-fuelled existence.

At least here, he’d die for principle. He’d died before for much less, and even then he was brought back to life, only to find himself unable to breathe without machines, and further a victim to his beautiful masters.  
At least here, he could have a choice, even if in the end it was all pointless. 

If he stuck around here much longer though, he’d probably just end up getting hypothermia, and he couldn’t bring himself to imagine the horrors of 19th century medicine that he might tempt.   
Grantaire heaved himself up.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few days in Old Paris. 

Before dawn the first night he found he couldn’t go back, Grantaire resolved to make his way back to the Musain. It hadn’t been locked, and the landlady recognised him. She locked up the liquor before she let him sleep.

The morning after that, he met the girl, her name sadly forgettable, that led him to find Marius.

When Grantaire had revealed that he worked in art trade many weeks ago, Musichetta had remarked that Marius’ grandfather historically appreciated the arts, and that he should steal his old oil paints. Marius had laughed upon overhearing.

Of course, that was then. When everything was blurry and had no consequence. Now, Grantaire wanted those paints, and Marius was going to help him take them. Consequence be damned.

Marius wasn’t so sure, his hands trembling in both excitement and fear of a rebellion so close to home.

‘Come on, Marius, it’ll be good practise.’- Grantaire had promised.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Grantaire had gotten his oil paints and canvases. He had taken the time to also steal a few bottles of fine wine hanging around the Pontmercy residence. It had cost him his hearing though, someone had heard them acting blind drunk in the night and shot past their ears as they climbed the fence to safety.

Later, Grantaire started his work, starting with Marius’ red cheeks, and fine clothes brandishing the tricolour. 

It was rough, but it was something, and he had to work quickly. 

La Marque was barely alive anymore. Whispers flew from day to day of his ghostly pallor. Grantaire had no clue of when all of this was going to end, only that death was coming very soon for them all.

Besides, working at such a fast pace to outline each of his friends in the paint, to carve out their beautiful features, made it that much easier to forget their leader.

Gavroche, the child that weaved in and out of the crowds of the Musain each revel (and supplied Grantaire with some mysterious coins that allowed him residence in the Musain’s attic each night) had helpfully informed that Enjolras was looking for him. 

Grantaire’s unique position upstairs allowed him to sneak in and out of meetings mostly unnoticed.

_Mostly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for kudos and comments, and remember that if you want to ask questions, submit prompts, or give me ideas/friendship, I'm on tumblr @Star--trex.tumblr.com.


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